


Though We've Never Been Together, We've Never Been Apart

by Ciorstaidh (kirstieroo)



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7803205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirstieroo/pseuds/Ciorstaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Outlander Soulmark AU - the first words your soulmate says to you are inscribed on your body somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though We've Never Been Together, We've Never Been Apart

**Author's Note:**

> They say if you can't find the fanfic you want to read, write it yourself. So I did. First time writing fanfic in years and first foray into Outlander fandom (and reinstating my teenage usage of the Gaelic spelling of my name in it's honour), but I adore soulmate AUs and have a few ideas for this one, so here goes nothing!
> 
> J & C's first words to each other differ slightly from book to TV show - I've taken the first words to each other from the book but mixed and matched the other details slightly, so sorry to any purists.

While it was true that Jamie was no stranger to pain, and had indeed borne worse, the pain in his shoulder seemed to be more excruciating by the minute. Still, at least it was eclipsing the wound from the musket ball. _Silver linings,_ he thought grimly. The efforts of the Mackenzie clansmen to force it back into joint certainly weren't helping. Much more of this and with any luck he'd pass out, or perhaps they'd give it up as a bad cause and leave him here, let the Redcoats put him out of his misery. He accepted the flask of whisky offered by Angus gladly and drank messily, but found it did little to take the edge off.

"All right for another go, lad?" asked Angus as he pulled the flask from Jamie's hand, "Or maybe Rupert should have a try?"

Jamie nodded shakily, not caring who forced the thing back so long as they did it promptly. Rupert stepped forward, grim-faced and flexing his own, undeformed shoulder. Jamie steeled himself, as he felt Angus and Murtagh take hold of his uninjured shoulder and Rupert grasp his useless right arm by the wrist. He gritted his teeth, the pain intensifying once more as his arm was forced upwards.

"Don't you dare!" a crisp English voice rang out, startling him so suddenly he would have fallen off the stool were it not for the supportive embraces of Angus and Murtagh. He felt them stiffen in surprise also. The sassenach woman his godfather had dragged into the cottage was glaring at Rupert with a startling air of outrage.

"You'll break his arm if you do it like that. Stand out of the way, please." She had shouldered her way past Rupert, taking Jamie's arm from him.

Jamie was too shocked to resist, not that he was inclined to move his arm in general. He studied her as she continued speaking, talking about bones and angles as though she was a schoolmaster and the baffled Highlanders surrounding them her pupils. She was beautiful in her righteous fury, but he thought she looked afraid too. Her amber eyes glittered determinedly in the firelight, _like pools of whisky_ , he thought absurdly as she raised his arm, turned to met his eye and addressed him directly for the first time.

“This is the worst part,” she warned. He swallowed thickly. _A Dhia, did she…?_ Yes, unless the pain had driven him mad - or maybe the contents of Angus’ flask were more potent than he realised - those were certainly the words on his shoulder. He felt his mouth twitch in the ghost of a smile and thought distantly that it was maybe a good thing his shoulder was paining him so, or else he'd be grinning like a fool.

“It canna hurt much worse than it does. Get on wi’ it,” he watched her carefully, but her countenance didn't waver. _Perhaps she didn't hear?_ She looked like she was concentrating hard, and his arm was clearly weighing heavy in her hands, and her such a wee thing next to him.

He was jolted from these musings by the sudden sensation of his shoulder sliding back into place. Shocked, and gloriously pain free, he put his hand up to his shoulder. It felt tender and bruised, but no longer unnaturally deformed. “It doesna hurt anymore!”

This time he couldn't hold back the smile. She was breathing hard, flushed with the exertion and the warmth borne of the nearby hearth and too many bodies squeezed into the small cottage.

“It will,” she told him, “It will be tender for several days. You mustn't extend the joint at all for two or three days; when you do use it again, go slowly at first. Stop at once if it begins to hurt, and use warm compresses daily.”

He continued to watch her as she spoke with his uncle and strapped his arm to his chest, trying to drink in as much of her as he could in the gloom of the cottage, the low fire providing the only light and casting her in flickering shadows. She was clad only in her shift, wet with rainwater, but nonetheless held herself regally, as if it was nothing remarkable to be stood barking orders at men whilst clad in her underwear. _But she is nervous,_ he thought, _for all she is fierce._

Had he been mistaken? The pain had been distracting, to be sure, but he was certain he had heard his words from her mouth. _“This is the worst part.”_ He had seen them often enough since they appeared when he was fourteen. A glance down when bathing or dressing, or reflected back to him in a looking glass. He had sat with Ian contemplating who might one day utter them, and what he might say in return, or to prompt such a statement.

And wondering how their speaker would react when he said hers.

But this strange lass hadn’t reacted at all. No twitch of lip or brow to suggest his words had held any meaning at all. Could it be a coincidence? He had thought his words distinct enough to be safe from false alarm, unlike those poor sods with “madainn mhath” or “ciamar a tha thu?”. He was drawn from his musings by the sound of his name.

“Can ye ride?” Dougal was asking him.

“Aye,” he nodded, and rose to follow the other Highlanders and the sassenach out. He managed to pull himself up into the saddle without too much trouble and helped the lass settle herself into the saddle before him. She was held herself stiffly, trembling. Her shift couldn’t be lending her much warmth, thin and wet as it was, although the fabric was undoubtedly fine. He pulled her closer, then tried to reach around to pull his plaid free.

“Careful!” she scolded. “What are you trying to do?”

“Get my plaid loose to cover you,” he explained. “You’re shaking so hard you’re making my teeth rattle.” With her fumbling assistance, Jamie managed to get the plaid free and swung it around them both.

It was during this endeavour that he found his eye caught by the glint of moonlight on smooth metal - a wedding ring.  _ Ah, of course. _ This Mistress Beauchamp was clearly an educated woman by her speech, and if her shift and poise any indication perhaps a wealthy one. Women didn’t always have the luxury of waiting and hoping someone would come along and say their words one day, and a husband often required for reasons beyond romance.

_ Ah well, Jamie lad _ , he told himself as he tried to ignore the feel of her bottom between his thighs and the softness of her hair against his chest,  _ it’s probably for the best. What lass wants an outlaw for a soulmate anyway? _


End file.
